


The Addict

by novadiablo



Series: Exit Wound [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Army, Discussions of Drug Use, Implied non-con/dub-con, M/M, Triggers, War Stories, soldier John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:22:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novadiablo/pseuds/novadiablo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John never thought he knew everything about Sherlock, but he still manages to be surprised.</p>
<p>{Rating may go up; WIP}</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE NOTE: there are possible triggers littered throughout this story involving coerced sexual relations/rape/prostitution, depending on the way you look at it and I really don't want anyone to be triggered so please, if you happen to have triggers such as these, skip this story.

Nothing changed dramatically, not really. It was just as though their friendship had shuffled to the left slightly. There was a little bit more touching – not a lot, Sherlock had always been pretty tactile anyway, and they didn’t hug again, but brushing of shoulders and guiding hands on backs were more of a thing. Also, Sherlock felt inclined to take up the entire couch now, whether or not John was sitting on it.

John still didn’t talk about the war, no sir. The one night that he told Sherlock about Dylan seemed to have taken it out of him in that sense, but he hid things less. On nights that he woke up from his nightmares and Sherlock was awake, he could come downstairs for a glass of water, his face streaked in tears still, and he would stay to watch Sherlock play the violin. He often fell asleep on the couch, which thankfully was fine to sleep on, Sherlock could attest to that. On those nights Sherlock never turned around, preferring to play out the window, because he felt if he looked into John’s face the spell would be broken.

John also seemed less ashamed of his wound. Once or twice he even asked Sherlock to heat up the wheat bag so he could put it on his shoulder, and he had even, in front of Lestrade and the forensics team, told Sherlock he was going to head home because the weather was making it twinge. Sherlock had simply run off a series of facts to Lestrade and left with John, not taking him to Baker Street but to a masseuse in the inner city. He insisted on staying an observing while ‘Arati’ worked her fingers into John’s shoulder, covering and then uncovering the exit wound and the numbers on his shoulder blade with her hands. He catalogued her techniques and John’s reactions to them, ignoring the niggling feeling in his brain that had _emotion_ written on it in bright red ink. John didn’t thank him when they left but smiled warmly at him, and that was better than any words really.

 

 

 

The next case they were on was a drugs one, which always made Lestrade twitchy with bad memories and John nervous because he knew almost nothing about Sherlock’s previous addiction. Lestrade had been on the drugs squad for a short stint; the short stint that earned Sherlock rehab time (he was lucky it wasn’t jail time, he had enough on him it could have been seen as possession with intent to sell). Sherlock knew straight away who was responsible for the drug-related murder; he’d seen it; he’d almost been a victim of it himself.

Charlie had that gentle, nice guy persona that really appealed to new addicts, but he was just as ruthless at the rest of them. He was a sick bastard, they all were really, but if you didn’t have money he had alternative payment methods available. He was reminding Sherlock of them when John showed up.

The alleyway was dark, dirty and dingy and Charlie was alone, the idiot. It would do him well to keep a few henchmen by his side. Sherlock was on his knees and his eyes were stinging from the pressure Charlie was putting on his scalp, dirty fingers tangled in his curls. Sherlock cursed the muddy surface that was currently destroying his trousers and he refused to look up at Charlie, because he knew what Charlie wanted.

“You’re still the addict, ain’t ya Sherly?” he spat, his voice rough and primitive, like a ten year old bully who listened to his alcoholic father too much. “Ye’d do anythin’ for a fix.” He tugged on Sherlock’s hair harder and he had to keep down the whimper of pain. He was pulling Sherlock’s face towards his crotch. “I see you got yourself a bit of money, now, but so do I, ‘n I don’t want yours. So, how about…” he paused for a second, yanking Sherlock forward a bit more to illustrate his intention, “I shove my hard prick in your pretty little mouth and you suck it like a good wh-“

Neither of them saw nor head John until he spoke. “How about I shove this in your mouth and pull the trigger, scumbag?” he said, placing his gun against Charlie’s head. The fingers released his hair and Sherlock scrabbled backwards in a very undignified manner as he saw Charlie sink to his knees and Lestrade and his team came running in, guns up.

He was dragged away by a paramedic at the same time Charlie was put in cuffs and he found himself swaddled in a bright orange blanket, but this time with no Lestrade demanding answers or John furtively checking him over. The paramedic – in the middle of a divorce and happier for it – gave him some water and checked over his scalp before leaving him to himself. In the flashing red and blue of the police lights Charlie was frogmarched out of the alleyway, limping slightly, a bruise forming on the side of the head that wasn’t there a few moments ago and John strolling, satisfied, behind him.

“What happened to his head?” Sherlock asked as John leaned against the ambulance next to him. John just shrugged a little.

“He resisted arrest; I was just helping Lestrade.”

“By kicking him in the head?” Sherlock asked almost laughingly, but John’s reply was interrupted by an obviously new officer who strode over to him. She stood by John, who was smirking a little at Sherlock, clearing her throat to get his attention.

“Sir, do you have a license for that firearm.” The both looked at her for a moment, slightly stunned, and Sherlock looked at John expectantly. John sighed, pulling out his wallet, and slipped a slim card out to hand to her. She took one glance at it and startled a little before squinting at it suspiciously. She handed it back to him, chastised.

“I’m sorry sir, please continue.” Sherlock snatched the card from John, scanning it quickly. He looked up, eyebrows raised.

“MI6? Mycroft?” John nodded and laughed as Sherlock’s face fell. “Why don’t I get one?”

“I’ve actually be trained to use guns, Sherlock. You just wave them around and point them at explosives.” John laughed even harder at Sherlock’s as he adopted an indignant expression, but fell as the memory of Charlie’s words and their full meaning hit him. Sherlock’s face closed off as soon as he noticed the change.

“Sher-“

“Don’t, John.” His mouth was in a tight line.

“Sherlock, I can’t just-“ John was interrupted immediately by a deluge of words from Sherlock.

“John, there are things we don’t discuss. You don’t talk about the war, I don’t talk about what I did to get my drugs. I don’t tell you why you’ve been going to the gym more frequently and on dates less and you don’t ask me why I’m at the boxing ring every weekend. Let’s just keep it that way.”

With that, Sherlock slid off the shock blanket and stalked to the street to find a cab, leaving John to talk to Lestrade.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGERS: Abuse, past drug use, PAST SELF HARM. PLEASE do not read this if you are triggered by any of these topics as I could never live with myself if I triggered someone in any way.

It was only the next day that John was at the gym with Lestrade, still thinking about Sherlock’s encounter with Charlie. That evening, when he’d returned to Baker Street, he found Sherlock washed and immersed in a book ( _A Popular History of British Seaweeds_ ) and nothing had altered between them. John made rice and they went to bed as usual. He tried, he really did, to push all thoughts of Sherlock’s past drug use out of his mind, but to be confronted with it in such a blatant way strapped it to the forefront of his thoughts. For reasons unknown, John had always thought of Sherlock as being like he is now; haughty, lazing on the couch for days on end, only back then he was shooting cocaine every other day. According to Charlie, apparently not.

John was working on his arms and shoulders today, but he soon moved away from the equipment to where Lestrade was taking a break. He spun around on the seat to face him and looked at his friend with a serious expression.

“Yes?” Lestrade said in a resigned way that told John he knew what was about to happen.

“Sherlock, drugs, go.” The man just sighed.

“I’m surprised it took you this long to ask. I don’t know a lot, just what Myc has told me, so don’t get all snippy if I can’t give you details. You really should be asking Sherlock about this.”

“I’ve tried.”

Lestrade nodded sagely. “I’ve no doubt.” He seemed to be searching around his mind for a way to begin. “From what Mycroft has told me, Sherlock was introduced to cocaine by his friend Victor when he was nineteen after strictly swearing off drugs from a very young age to avoid ‘clouding his mind’. Mycroft thinks that the only reason Sherlock took them was because he wanted to impress Victor; he’d never had a friend before, but I wouldn’t want to speculate. He only took it recreationally for about a year, but after dropping out of university he turned to taking it all the time, I guess. Pretty sure he just snorted it at first, you know, lines and stuff, but eventually he was injecting pretty oft-“

Lestrade phone started blaring from the gym bag sitting next to him and he scrabbled to grab it.

“Lestrade… yep… what, seriously?... yeah, I’ll be there soon… okay, fine, just tell them you don’t have author-… no I’m officially retracting it then… yep… thanks, be there soon.” He looked back up at John and sighed, looking slightly regretful. “Sorry mate, work calls. I can tell you more later, but to be honest, you’d be better off asking himself about it.”

John shook his head slightly and stood to see Lestrade to the door before jumping under the showers.

 

 

“Lestrade, then.”

John jumped; the flat had been pitch black when he’d got in, so Sherlock was sitting in his chair in the dark.

“Some of it. He got called away before he could tell me very much.” John sat, resigned, opposite Sherlock, and they fell into silence. John could hear the traffic outside but he couldn’t see it; Sherlock had the curtains pulled tight. The only thing lighting the room was the gap between the curtains and the windows, so John could only just make out Sherlock’s features and he looked particularly alien tonight. Sherlock was studying him, from what John could tell, with a kind of gentle intensity that he usually reserved for children (not that he knew he did, and John wouldn’t even tell him), and John just let him, knowing that fighting whatever Sherlock was after was futile. They sat there for perhaps fifteen minutes, John dozing and Sherlock observing, and the only sounds were London and Mrs. Hudson downstairs and the occasional drip of a tap. When Sherlock spoke, John jumped a little.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Scars. They both had scars the other hadn’t seen, and Sherlock was offering a trade. Was it worth it? John had only shown these ones to medical staff. These ones bared his soul; they would tell Sherlock of war and childhood stories he didn’t want known by anyone, not at all. But Sherlock’s; maybe Sherlock’s were just as telling. John swallowed heavily and nodded.

Sherlock stood swiftly and unbuttoned his shirt methodically and then let it slip off his shoulders. He then unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his fly, letting his trousers fall to the floor. Stepping out of them, he came to stand in front of John, switching on the lamp next to him. John blinked his eyes, adjusting to the light and then looked up at Sherlock.

“You know my methods. Apply them.”

John reached out to touch Sherlock’s wrist, but the arm was jerked away so he put his hands back. Sherlock offered his wrist at the angle John had been after. His forearms where entirely clean; creamy white skin stretch over muscle and blue veins. The scarring started at his elbow. It wasn’t severe, not like some celebrities and musicians John had seen, but there was a fair amount of faded damage to the tissue around the crook of Sherlock’s left elbow. “Track mark scarring; repeated injections.” John quietly motioned for Sherlock to turn his arm outwards. “Cigarette burns; not self-inflicted.” Sherlock just nodded and John’s eyes trailed up to his neck. “Bruising on neck… um…” he looked helplessly at Sherlock but the man wasn’t even looking at him. “Violin! Violin hickey, only recent.” He inspected Sherlock’s nose. “Septum looks fine, any damage has been healed at least.” He moved down to Sherlock’s groin. “Severe infection resulting from injection into femoral vein. No femoral artery damage, but God that was stupid.”

“It wasn’t me,” Sherlock said, the first time he’d spoken since his offer. Clearly he could handle anything except being called stupid. He looked closed off though, so John didn’t enquire further. Finding nothing more telling on Sherlock’s front, he indicated for him to turn around and his breath caught in his throat.

“Jesus,” he whispered because the top six centimetres of Sherlock thighs were covered in scars upon scars upon scars. There was almost no fresh skin, only lumpy scar tissue. Unthinkingly, John ran his fingers over the whitened scarring and Sherlock shivered but didn’t move away. “Who did this to you?” John whispered, but there was silence. He didn’t notice, running his fingers gently over the scarring, mesmerised and horrified and feeling a little sick. It wasn’t until Sherlock’s voice cut through the quiet that his goosebumps rose though.

“Self-inflicted, four years.”

Suddenly Sherlock was away from John and re-clothing. Buttoned and belted up, he glared a piercing look at John. “We all have demons of the past, John. Now show me yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> ATTENTION: I am looking for prompts for war stories involving John (can be good and bad), so if you have any ideas you're itching to see written please please let me know.


End file.
